


Don’t be sour

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24820093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: A short examination of Mycroft trying to come to terms with his emotional life.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 20
Kudos: 120





	Don’t be sour

Mycroft put the phone down and stared at the dark screen for longer than was strictly necessary. Why did he still take calls of this nature? Was it merely his duty as a son that compelled him to answer? Was it some sort of missing affection that he was trying to get from somewhere that was a generally accepted source? And since when did he do things that were generally accepted? A shadow of disgust washed over his face, an emotion meant entirely for himself, before he turned the phone over and placed it on the leather writing pad of his desk. He leaned back in his chair, hands together under his chin, not unlike his brother, and closed his eyes.

“It would do you good to be more excited for him.”

“You’ll be there on the day. Try not to be sour.”

Mycroft winced.

“You could just be happy for him.”

“But I am,” Mycroft whispered into the empty office.

He startled himself as he felt a single tear run down his cheek, instinctively wiped it away.

“I am,” he repeated, a breath of air lost immediately.

Then several things happened at once. A chair almost fell over, Mycroft hit his knee on the corner of the desk, a small globe merely wobbled because the desk was very sturdy (much to the regret of the knee) and most importantly: His phone rang again.

“Jesus Christ…..” Mycroft mumbled and picked up the phone. His face softened in an instant.

“Hey, darling. Are you alright?” the voice on the other side said.

“My mother called you. She impressed upon you the need of dragging me to Sherlock’s wedding and making me look cheerful.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You’re the last person who should be sorry, Gregory.”

They shared a moment of silence. Mycroft took a deep breath to steel himself for how shaky his voice would sound. How it always sounded when talking about this.

“No, I am not okay,” he whispered. “I will never be okay.”

“Hey, hey, hey. We talked about this. You are perfect the way you are. If you feel bad right now, that’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Mycroft breathed, a sound barely there, a fact barely anchored in his mind.

“I’m in the car. Almost there.”

That did move Mycroft. “Gregory, it’s the middle of the work day.”

“So? It’s an emergency.”

Mycroft almost wanted to laugh. “It’s not an emergency. It can’t be.”

“Why?”

“If this is one… then every… every…” Mycroft couldn’t even finish the sentence before descending into sobs. He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t get the words out.

“Then every single time you were treated like that by your family or others was also an emergency? Mycroft, darling… it was. Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t not make it emotional abuse. Look, I’m really almost there. Give me a minute. I love you.”

“I love you,” Mycroft said through his tears.

Then the line cut. Mycroft pushed the button that would lock his office to anyone except special cardholders. He put the phone down, dragged both legs up into the chair, put his arms around them and buried his face. Pathetic. Pathetic. He sobbed, openly now. After no time at all, the door opened and closed and Greg’s arms were around him.

“Why?” Mycroft asked the question that had flown around his head all this time. “Why can I cry for myself, yet can’t show a smile for my brother?”

“I’m not a trained therapist, My.”

“No wonder they call me the Iceman. Antarctica.”

Greg kissed Mycroft’s head. “You sure that’s not just because you devour every kind of sorbet placed in your reach?”

Mycroft’s body shook with an involuntary giggle. Then he looked up, well aware of how dreadful his face must look, yet he found nothing but love and understanding in Greg’s eyes. Greg patted the edge of the desk.

“Come on, sit up here.”

Mycroft complied, if slowly. When he was seated, Greg stepped between his legs and embraced him, so that Mycroft could bury his face in Greg’s shoulder… his most comfortable place to talk.

“I don’t deserve you.”

A playful swat to his backside. “What did we say about sentiments like that?”

“Untrue.”

“And?”

“Not to say them so I forget about them.”

“Correct. This isn’t about deserving. I love you and I choose to be here for you, no matter what. You do the same, right?”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s fingers tightened in Greg’s shirt. Then they tightened some more. “Oh god, what did you say to my mother?”

“That you are old enough, but I’d talk to you. That’s all. I know you don’t want to breach the subject with her yet, when it’s all still fresh for you.”

Mycroft relaxed. “Thank you.”

“You know I’d be happy to give her a stern talking to.”

“I know.”

They stood like this for a while, Mycroft absorbing Greg’s calm like a plant basking in sunlight. He pressed ever closer when Greg’s hands stroked gentle patterns over his back.

“I think you should get diagnosed,” Greg said, then. “From what we’ve read, you’re definitely on the spectrum… and it could help when talking.”

“I don’t want to hold up a diagnosis like a shield, absolving me from wrongdoing.”

“I’m not saying you have to tell anyone at all. It would be just for you, you know? To know for sure. To know what resources to access to help you manage better, even if you never talk to your mother about it. Because, darling… you’re not managing at all right now. And that hurts me to see.”

Mycroft was silent, letting the words sink in.

“I love you, but I am not a professional. I can only support you.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. “Thank you.”

“Will you think about it?”

Mycroft’s heart made a complicated lurch. “Do you… want me to do that because… you want me to change?”

Greg stiffened, drew back and took Mycroft’s head between his hands, stared directly into his eyes.

“Mycroft Alexander Holmes. You are, in every regard, a perfect human in my eyes. I wouldn’t have you change anything about you for me, or for anyone else. I just want you to be able to live in this world without pain, this world which is built on assumptions of a standard human being, which doesn’t even exist. It’s hard, I know, and you shouldn’t have to do it at all… but…”

“It’s necessary to survive in society. I know. I’ve been living like this all my life.”

“I want you to know that it’s not you, who’s broken and everyone else is correct. You are whole, and perfect. And… I think having a scientific diagnosis that you can then examine down to the last neuron will help you, specifically you, with that. Just so you, for yourself, are okay… for once.”

Mycroft leaned forward and kissed Greg lightly.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought over the last two weeks.”

“Of course. I love you.”

“I’m sorry to have brought you pain.”

Greg shook his head.

“Come on, let’s skip work. Get some sorbet on the way home that you can lick off my chest.”

Mycroft smiled. “I would like that very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> as someone struggling with coming to terms with this myself, I’ve written this mostly so I can hear Greg say the words I need to hear *goes to cry*


End file.
